by Jill Nojack
Nine Lives: A Paranormal Adventure
Book Two in the Bad Tom Series
Jill Nojack
Indieheart Press
KENT, OHIO
Copyright © 2016 by Jill Nojack.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author at [email protected].
Cover designed by Jill Nojack
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Nine Lives/ Jill Nojack. -- 1st ed.
04042016 v1
Day drifts slowly into Giles Woods. It takes time for the early autumn light to break through from gray to dappled shade. I listen to the night things putting themselves to bed while it turns. Cat wants the hunt, but I hold him back: I hold myself back. Today, I'll hunt the things of the light that shuffle around the forest's damp, mulched floor as the sun rises.
A skinny mutt comes snuffling toward me, drawn by the smell of the fresh kill I brought down and laid out as a lure. It has to be part whippet or greyhound with that scrawny body and jutting spine. I almost feel sorry for it. Almost. But dogs are filthy, smelly things. No self-respecting cat would befriend an unwashed stray.
I hunker down on Cat's strong haunches, getting ready to spring, surprise it, give chase, when a growl sounds from the brush on the other side of the small clearing.
A large black dog, thick in the middle with swollen teats, teeth bared, moves out from the undergrowth, and stands ready to fight. The half-starved mutt hunches down, fear in its eyes, then slinks back and away from the breakfast it won't have today, bony tail between its legs. It fades into the woods and is gone. It's only me and her now.
Finally. The other strays I've captured were only practice for today. Cat's tail twitches as the dog moves into the clearing, sniffing at the newly dead baby rabbit and then quickly gobbling it up, bones crunching as it eats. It's better fed than the dog it chased off, but scruffier than a week or two ago when Robert buried his son's ashes. Although she's less well fed, she's bigger around the middle. Nearly ready to drop those pups.
Cat responds to my adrenalin and tenses. This isn't just any dog.
We burst into the clearing and face off with our prey, back arched, lips pulled back to display our pointy fangs.
But it's a ploy. A charade. It's all part of the plan. The stupid thing goes for it: dogs are so dumb.
I turn with feline grace and launch away, my hindquarters staying out of range of the dog's snapping jaws. The demon can growl, it can snap, but it can't outrun sleek me in its underfed, pregnant shell.
I hear hard breathing and the whisk of branches whipping against its body as I dart through holes in the brush wide enough for a clever cat but calculated to give a dog plenty of trouble. My victims never catch the scent of the other unfortunates who followed me through this path. They never catch on until it's too late.
Grasping jaws brush against our tail when they bite down. Too close. I spur Cat on to move faster. We're nearly there now. Just one more break in the brush to run through and then…
Metal bars close around us. The dog is a whisker behind, twigs snapping as it follows us in.
Nowhere to go but up.
I leap through the open door at the top, then neatly slap it shut with one paw and wait for the dog to hit the end of the cage with a thud-clank before I pull the pin at the back with my mouth and the spring-loaded trap door goes slamming down.
The dog bites at the top of its prison uselessly as I stare down into its eyes. Cat can't see reds, no cat can, but I'm sure it's Anat. I'm sure the dog's eyes have the red glint of the demon inside.
Unlike most of the mutts I've captured, it doesn't bark or whine to be let out. It knows what I am.
I move to where I've left my clothes and think my shift words, good Tom. My warm black fur becomes pale skin as my bones pull themselves apart, morph, grow, stretch, and my human body appears where only moments before, the cat had been. Focused on my victory, I barely notice the pain.
I get dressed, then turn back to the dog in the cage. Its eyes have a red sheen, angry and defiant. I knew it. I knew it was her.
I usually get a rope around the dog's neck and leave it tied up by the road for the dogcatcher. Then I take off after dropping a call. But I'm not taking any chances with this one.
I open my pack and take out the customized witches' salt Natalie made me. I've been waiting a long time to use it: I have no magic of my own to make spells, but she assured me it will bind Anat to the dog's body as it dies, finally forcing her out of the world of the living where she hasn't belonged for a thousand years. I have to trust that Natalie knows what she's doing. It wasn't easy planning this without Cassie finding out that Anat might still be a threat. After what she went through, no one could bear to tell her.
I sprinkle the powder and say the words to activate the spell as I ready myself to open the cage and sink the knife in at her heart.
The dog's eyes never blink. They follow mine as I work. There's a slight sedative effect to the powder, and she sinks to the floor of the cage, her eyes losing their glow. They're just dog eyes now: brown, pleading, sad.
And, of course, the phone rings. Portable phones. Great idea. Hooray for progress.
I snatch it from my pocket. Robert.
I greet him with, "It's done. I got her. Anat."
He doesn't answer right away, then he says, "You're sure it's Anat and not Mrs. Green's Fluffy?"
"Yeah, yeah…I never laid a hand on Fluffy…."
"That better be the truth, Tom. Lavinia is frantic. Woke me up for the second morning in a row, insisting that there are evil forces in this town bent on coming between senior citizens and their pets. Says dogs are disappearing at an alarming rate in the past week or two."
"Sheesh. What does it look like?"
"She's a Yorkie mix. Wears a jeweled collar. Just about the last dog you'd mistake for an unloved stray."
Oh hell. "I'll keep an eye out for it."
"If you would. And I hope that your obsession with the town's strays is finally at an end?"
"I don't know why you call it an obsession. A few feral dogs…"
"If you say so, Tom." He pauses. I imagine him wearing his patient look. "Of course, I'm still hoping for Fluffy's safe return."
We say our goodbyes, and the dog looks up at me again with its I-can't-help-it-that-I'm-possessed eyes.
Cat's still pushing hard for the dog's demolition, but there's always plan B. I'd fight her to the death if I had to, but the dog isn't threatening me now. Reluctantly, I put the knife away.
I call animal control about an abandoned dog and drop a little extra intel about a Yorkie mix that might have come their way two days before and that might belong to a Mrs. Lavinia Green on Spruce street, if they wanted to ring her up and ask. Then I fade into the bushes to wait.
No one's going to adopt a pregnant dog before its kill day arrives in a week. Who would want a whole houseful of slobbering animals at one time?
The animal control officer arrives in the city's white van. He
looks surprised by the cage, but he's a big guy. He has no problem loading it in and driving away.
I think about slipping back into the woods as Cat, but it's a beautiful day, crisp not cold. It smells like sunshine.
Nah, this is a good day to take that walk back into town as a man.
***
It's been eight days since I walked out of the woods as a man and sent Anat on her way to the pound. I was caged there once myself, thanks to Anat's buddy Kevin, so it's etched in my memory permanently that Thursday is kill day at the pound. If an animal is unlicensed and no one claims or adopts it, that's the end of it. And the pound has been full up for a while, thanks to my efforts. Maybe Robert is almost right about my watchfulness having slid into obsession. I don't think they'll be making any humane exceptions for a pregnant dog, but I need to be sure.
I dial animal control and trap my phone against my ear as I open the fridge and rummage for the makings of an amazing breakfast. Cassie won't know what we're celebrating, but that doesn't matter. Eggs Benedict, I think. The ingredients are lined up on the counter by the time someone answers.
"I'm calling about a lost dog?"
"Talk fast. We're euthanizing today."
"Black dog? Female?"
"Yeah, we've got one. Yours pregnant?"
"No. Can't be mine. She only went missing yesterday and wasn't pregnant then."
"That's a shame. Hate to put them down when they're in a family way. Wouldn't happen to want another one?"
"No. Sorry, can't help you out. So, the poor thing's done for today? Even though she's pregnant?" I try not to start dancing, but my feet are itching to do a celebration cha-cha.
"Yeah, she's scheduled. If you want to leave a number, I can get back to you if another black female comes in."
"And…man, do you believe it? That's her scratching at the back door. Sorry to bother you. I've got a hole in the fence I've got to fix. You have a good one."
Cassie walks in on the last part, plants a kiss on me, and says, "We don't have a fence."
"I have no idea why that would pop in my head as an excuse to get rid of that salesman, but…"
She's not even listening anymore as she sticks her head around my shoulder to eye up what I'm cooking. "So, that looks pretty good," she says. Her lips smack close to my ear.
I set my utensils down, turn toward her, and draw her in close in silent appreciation of her appetites before I turn back to finish making our victory breakfast. In a few hours, we'll finally be free.
I unlock the front door to the Giles Gallery of Art and call out, "Dash?". But my elegant, elderly boss doesn't appear, smirk on his face, saying, "That boyfriend of yours finally let you get here on time, Cassie?"
It's strange for the gallery to be locked when I arrive, but I'm not going to worry just yet: I can tell Dash has been here. Above the smell of new white paint from last month's cleansing coat, it smells like clove and vanilla. Dash's passage always leaves a scented wake of mustache wax and herbal cigarettes.
So, maybe he went out. But it's really not like him to close up shop in the middle of the day. Still, if he was here, he'd have heard the chime when I came in. And he always floats to the front of the shop no matter what he's doing when the art-lover-signaling chime rings.
Go figure. On the day I finally show up early to make up for the fact that Tom's goodbye kisses almost always make me late, the boss isn't even here.
Not that I wanted to skip the kisses; that would be impossible. Ever since he stopped going out every morning as Cat, I've been late for work because nobody would skip kisses with Tom on purpose. But there was this cute little puppy scratching at the door of the shop this morning, and I had to play with it. It was the sweetest thing! I couldn't keep my eyes or my hands off of it.
Anyway, that made me pretty much smell like dog, which made Tom pretty much not want to be near me. It's a Cat thing, I guess. I washed, but he said he could still smell it. His nose is really sensitive.
With Tom not in a mood for smooches, I thought Dash could get out of here for an extra long lunch with Jon. He's such a great boss. He should have a chance to linger with his partner like he tolerates me lingering with mine. I'm kind of disappointed he's not here. I would have loved to surprise him.
So now, I don't know if he wants me to open the gallery or not. We'll miss the lunch crowd, or the lunch trickle, or whatever you want to call it, if I don't. Even a trickle can produce a buyer or two out of the flow. And we definitely treasure those buyers among the looky-loos.
Plus, now that Dash has the gallery back in his name free and clear, he's super excited about it again. He's even extended the hours now that I can give him some time off once in a while. It really is weird that he's not here.
"Dash?" I call again, and I hear the sound of scuffling coming from the back room. Okay, so maybe he was caught up with something else and didn't hear me. I push aside the soft crimson curtain that separates the gallery from the employee room and storage areas.
Whoa! There's something I've never seen before. A trap door in the floor? The red-based oriental rug that normally covers it must have been doing its job. I would never have guessed there was anything under it.
Wait, Tom told me about it: there's a hidden storage room below the gallery. He said Dash helped hide Anat's magic boxes there when my friends were trying to figure out how to get her spirit out of my body.
Darn it. I don't want to think about that. But here it is again. Always lurking around, tainting my childhood memories with the knowledge that my Granny wasn't really my Granny. No, she'd been possessed by an ancient, evil, demon-goddess who was only interested in me because she wanted to harvest my body when Granny Eunice's gave out.
Seriously, as dysfunctional families go, mine ranks right up there.
And then I realize that maybe something bad happened to Dash if he's not answering. I call down the stairwell, and he doesn't respond. I need to get down there. He's not a young guy. He could be in trouble.
The stairs are steep and the risers are narrow. Not much light, either. It sneaks through a slit created by an almost closed door at the bottom of the stairs.
I hold the handrail as I cautiously make my way step by step and call again, "Dash? Are you down here?"
The only answer is a long, low, rumbling growl.
I stop with one foot frozen in the air, unable to finish my next step forward. I stand there for a long moment, afraid to move. What the? My heart races as my mind reviews the possibilities. Gremlins? Zombies? Demons? Beliebers?
I get myself back under control, unfreeze my foot, and move it backward, my chest tight and buckets of adrenalin dumping into my system. I swear I can hear the blood coursing through my veins hard and fast.
I'll get out of here and go for Tom. He'll know what to do.
As my foot taps behind me, seeking the step, and my eyes are still fixed on the semi-darkness below, Dash's head and shoulders appear, peeking out around the half-closed door.
Omigod, what a relief! You'd have to know Dash to understand, but he's probably the least scary thing in the entire town of Giles. He's gentle and pliable and is always the first person to wave the white flag when someone needs to surrender. Now I just want to laugh at myself, but I'm afraid he'd take it the wrong way, and I would never want to hurt his feelings. He's a total sweetie.
"Cass?" he says. "Oh my, you gave us quite a turn."
He looks disheveled—even his dyed-black mustache isn't pomaded up at the ends in homage to Salvador Dali like usual. It droops above his upper lip, a hairy, unkempt caterpillar.
Then Jon pops his head out above Dash's shoulder, smoothing down his normally perfectly-coiffed white hair. "Hello, Cass. You've come across us unawares, I'm afraid. Can we have a moment, do you think?"
Great. I've interrupted the boss's freak time. That growl? Wow. A little role play? I try not to think about it, but I don't have much success. Now I'm imagining the guys dressed up in a little something furry. Ew. Yuck. Ick on
the senior sexy.
But wait a minute—I mean, really—who am I to get all judgey? My hot, werecat boyfriend gets furry on a regular basis.
I make my way up the stairs with a smirk on my face. Good for them. I mean it. I hope Tom and I are still as playful when we're that age.
***
I busy myself with the dusting while I wait for the guys to finish up whatever they're doing down there, making sure I get the backs of the frames the way Dash likes it done. I'd grab the step stool from the back room and really get into it, but I don't want to leave the gallery unattended. We've got some small brasses on display that would be way too easy to stick in a backpack or purse.
When he does appear, he looks a little out of it, still not quite himself. Not nervous like he usually is, just…I don't know. Absent? Jon follows him and has pretty much the same expression.
"So sorry," I say. "I didn't mean to interrupt anything."
Dash says, "Never go downstairs again unless I say so. There will be consequences." He's like Mr. Serious all of a sudden. And his eyes are tight with fury. So not Dash.
"Really, I'm sorry. I promise I won't do it again. I just…well, I got here early so you guys could have a longer lunch than usual. A special treat, you know?"
His tight expression loosens a little, and then Jon puts a hand on his shoulder and gives it a squeeze, and they're mostly back to normal. But just mostly. Dash gives me a smile but it looks forced. "That's kind of you, Cass. Of course, we'd love to spend some extra time together. It may be one of the last warmish days to take a walk around town before the sun goes away for the winter."
He looks back at Jon, who adds, "True, and we wouldn't want to waste it."
They exit the shop, Jon's hand still on Dash's shoulder.
Thank goodness that storm didn't last long. And no way am I ever going near that hatch again. I don't care what's down there, I love this job. I'd rather deal with a zombie invasion than Dash's mustache-quivering anger!